


pull me closer

by susiecarter



Category: DC Extended Universe, Justice League (2017)
Genre: Bathing/Washing, F/F, Friends With Benefits, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Mutual Pining, Post-Canon, Rescue
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-15
Updated: 2019-08-15
Packaged: 2020-09-01 12:51:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,026
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20258392
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/susiecarter/pseuds/susiecarter
Summary: Diana feared for a moment that it would not work—that the light of her power wasn't enough, and the ice would never melt.But then the first splintering crack reached her ears, and a moment later the wall of it before her had cracked, shattered; pieces broke off and slid away, the ice splitting deeper and deeper, still reflecting with red-gold shimmers of light. And then, all at once, a series of gasps, ragged startled half-drawn breaths—and Lois coughed.





	pull me closer

**Author's Note:**

  * For [SinginInTheRaine](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SinginInTheRaine/gifts).

> You picked so many fantastic freeforms I was spoiled for choice, SinginInTheRaine—so please enjoy this shameless mashup of like half a dozen of them, plus or minus some of the optional ones you also listed. :D Happy PiningEx!
> 
> Title from the song "Closer", Chainsmokers ft. Halsey.

Diana feared for a moment that it would not work—that the light of her power wasn't enough, and the ice would never melt.

But then the first splintering crack reached her ears, and a moment later the wall of it before her had cracked, shattered; pieces broke off and slid away, the ice splitting deeper and deeper, still reflecting with red-gold shimmers of light. And then, all at once, a series of gasps, ragged startled half-drawn breaths—and Lois coughed.

Diana made herself move. Helped a man stumble forward out of the ice that had held him; dug her fingers in and broke away what remained around the legs of a pale-haired woman who shook too hard with cold to break it herself. They all mattered, and she was glad for their safety. But Lois was among them, and she knew it, and she could not stop listening for it: for Lois's voice, her wry unsteady laugh.

And then Diana was before her at last—and of course Lois had been helping the man beside her tug himself free, would never have settled for staggering free of her prison to wait for someone else to act.

"_Lois_," she said, helpless to prevent it.

And Lois turned and looked at her, pale and shaking. She was nearly blue with chill, shuddering convulsively—_bleeding_, Diana realized, though of course it was sluggish with cold, and she reached out before she could stop herself as Lois took a shaky half-step toward her, and was startled anew, dismayed, by the frigid bite of Lois's skin beneath her hands.

"God," Lois said unevenly, "it's like you're on fire," and she shivered; but if the sensation pained her, she was ignoring it, pressing into Diana's arms instead of away.

"Help is coming," Diana said, because it was. She could hear it, now, footsteps and voices—she had seen the crowd arrayed outside. The wall of ice that had surrounded this place must have crumbled too, along with the ice within, and had let them in.

Lois laughed against her shoulder, breathless. Her hair was wet, stiff with cold, dripping icy water down Diana's arm. "It's already here, genius," she said, into Diana's collarbone, and then leaned into her even harder for a moment, shuddering, like she couldn't stop. "She's—she's already gone," she added. "The woman, she was—she called herself the Ice Queen—"

Diana smiled, helpless to prevent it. "And of course you were already taking notes," she murmured against Lois's brow.

"Oh, shut up," Lois said, muffled, and then shifted a little under Diana's hands—twisted to show Diana the outside of one arm, the half-dozen small slicing wounds that crossed it. "She had magic. Never seen anything like it. She just—pulled these icicles out of the air. Shattered like glass when she threw them."

Diana brushed a gentle fingertip just beneath the lowest cut. Lois didn't flinch; but then for all Diana knew, she couldn't even feel it.

And Diana knew very well what she _wanted_ to do. It was impossible to set aside the thought, impossible not to imagine it: she might so easily take Lois in her arms right now, bear her up and tuck her safely away. Bind her wounds, and soothe her, and warm her, with Diana's own touch alone.

But that would be selfish, self-serving. Surely Lois would prefer to be tended by someone who had earned the right to do so—earned it through effort and qualification, rather than laying desperate claim to it out of sheer wistful greed—

"It's all right," Lois said, and lifted one trembling arm, hooked it with surprising strength around Diana's shoulder. "It's not that bad."

"Lois—"

"I'm shivering," Lois pointed out, a shudder wracking her even as she said it as if to demonstrate the truth of her words. "Can't be _that_ hypothermic, if you're shivering. I don't need a hospital for a dozen paper cuts and some freezer burn. Diana, please, can't you just—"

She stopped, then. To hesitate so was unlike her; Diana could not see her face, turned as it was into the hollow of Diana's throat, sheltered by the curve of her shoulder, and abruptly it troubled her. She smoothed her fingers through Lois's half-frozen hair, and oh, it shouldn't have been so gratifying to feel it thaw against her palm.

"Fuck," Lois said at last, muffled. "I shouldn't have said that. I don't—I didn't mean to make it sound like just because we're—" She cut herself off and cursed again, and Diana couldn't help but smile into her hair. "It's not your job to look after me, and I'm not going to make you—"

Ah.

Diana closed her eyes, and bit her lip. "No," she agreed gently, "you aren't. You aren't going to make me." She dared to press her mouth to Lois's icy brow, just for a moment: brief, ambiguous; a gesture that could have been made in earnest by a friend.

For that was what they were, even now, after everything. And Diana could have no true cause for pain or regret as long as that remained true, no matter what her greedy heart liked to murmur to her in the middle of the night.

She had already had so much of Lois, more than she ever could have expected—more than she would ever have dared to ask for. And now Lois offered her still more, and then fretted over it; as if Diana had either the strength or the desire to refuse.

"It wouldn't be a—job," she said aloud. "It would be a pleasure. It would be a pleasure, Lois, and I would be glad to."

And Lois sighed against Diana's throat, soft and unsteady, and held on tighter; clung to her, cold and tired and trusting, and let Diana lift her up.

It had not always been so.

They hadn't even known each other, at first. The day Clark had died—Diana had caught his body when Bruce had lowered it into her arms, lain him down, and a woman had dropped to her knees beside him and wept for him. Diana hadn't known her name; it hadn't mattered. She had looked at Lois there and had felt her chest bind itself in knots, had felt her eyes sting. She knew what it was to be left behind, and now this woman knew it, too. And it had been strange, painful, and yet even then a kind of solace: to know and be known, to be conscious with such aching awareness that they were neither of them alone.

Perhaps she should have expected it. Perhaps she should have realized, even then, feeling the first touch of Lois's self upon her heart, how it would end.

There had been a great deal of work to do, after Clark had died. Bruce hadn't flinched from it, and Diana had, in time, been permitted to assist him with it. Alexander Luthor, Jr., had left a great deal of information behind him, when he went to prison—and they could not have tracked it all down, neither as quickly nor as completely, without Lois's help.

They had become friends, slowly, a piece at a time. And then—

Then there had come a night when Lois had needed a friend dearly. Diana knew the shape of grief, its weight and unpredictability; how awkward it could be to carry; how one moment it might feel wholly contained, and yet the next it would slip its leash without warning.

She had recognized that night for what it had been. Had recognized the look that had stolen across Lois's face, and had felt her heart ache in sympathy.

But she hadn't quite expected Lois to kiss her.

That was how it had begun. Lois had flinched from Diana's stillness, had covered her mouth and her face and twisted away—and that, Diana had discovered she did not want. Lois had felt herself alone, had been desperate to avoid remaining so; but she had not been, not for a moment, and Diana had wanted suddenly, deeply, for her to understand that.

So she had caught Lois's chin against her fingertips, and coaxed Lois's hands away from her downturned face. Had swept Lois's hair back, traced the shell of her ear and the line of her cheek, until the worst of the tension in her shoulders had eased. And then Diana had kissed her back.

They'd slept together, that night. Slept together and then fallen asleep together, equally readily, curled close against each other. It hadn't troubled Diana, then; in fact, she'd been glad of it. Lois had been tired, worn thin, heavy-hearted and in pain—but it had been within Diana's power, she had _placed_ it within Diana's power, to soothe her for a time. To comfort her, to make her feel good. To grant her the closeness, the sense of connection, she had needed. Diana hadn't regretted it for a moment.

She still didn't, even now. It was only—

It was only that it had happened again. Again, and again, and again.

Diana had known it could not last. She had been careful to remember it; to remind herself. It hadn't helped. If anything, the knowledge had—had only made each moment with Lois more precious to her. She had treasured every touch of Lois's hands and mouth, every smile, every laugh. The faces Lois made, the way she rolled her eyes; that she kicked, reflexive and unknowing, as she fell asleep; that her feet were always cold. If anything, Diana had found herself chasing after them all with ever-greater greed, hopelessly aware that they were limited in number, that soon they would no longer be given to her.

And then Bruce had told her he wished to bring Clark back from the dead, and believed he had the means to do it.

She had feared the worst: for them all, for Bruce, for Lois, for Clark himself. But there had been a small secret part of her that had curdled with dismay at the thought that there might be selfishness in it, too—for she was not immune to such things, and never had been.

She had kept the lasso with her, on her, when she argued with Bruce, wrapped tight and glowing in secret, round her waist. She had wanted to be sure that every word she spoke was true, sincerely meant. She could not have borne it, otherwise.

And then, at last, Clark had been returned to them all. And Diana had known it was the end of the—arrangement. Closeness, comfort, company, were all very well. But Lois would not want more than that. Not from Diana; not anymore, if ever there had been a chance she might.

It would stop. Soon, it would stop.

It hadn't yet, but that meant nothing. Lois would end it. And when she did, Diana would smile, and kiss her just once more to say goodbye, and wish her every happiness.

Lois loved Clark, and would choose to be with him again when it was time, and that was only right. It was not something she should be made to feel cruel for. She had struggled for so long, borne so great a weight—and the last thing Diana ever intended to do was add to her burden.

So it had meant nothing, that it had been Diana who had come for Lois in the ice. It had meant nothing, that the rest of the League had treated it like a given, that Clark hadn't so much as hesitated over comms. There had been magic involved; it _had_ been a given. Diana was the best equipped of all of them to face a danger of that kind. That was all.

And of course she would have gone in any case, even if Lois had never touched her at all. She would have gone to save a friend—she would have gone to save a stranger. But—

But she could admit, rueful, knowing, that there was a soft and mindless gladness in having been there. In snatching Lois from the jaws of danger with her own two hands, and in the way that Lois had reached for her, had leaned into her, had accepted the shelter of her presence.

And that gladness utterly failed to fade by the time they reached Diana's suite in Paris.

Lois was warmer now, though she still shivered beneath Diana's touch. Her eyes were half-closed, her step unsteady. But she could stand unaided—and could complain of it, too, petulant and deliberate, until Diana smiled despite herself.

She went quiet, though, when Diana reached for the top button of her blouse.

It wasn't the first time Diana had undressed her, nor even the first time she had done it slowly. But they—they did not laugh; there was no teasing. The flush to Lois's face wasn't the pink heat of anticipation, nor the soft embarrassed warmth that had sometimes bloomed there when Diana stared at her too long, but rather raw cold reddening her cheeks. Lois pressed herself into Diana's hands, chilled and seeking comfort, instinctive and unselfconscious.

Her arm bled more freely now than it had before—and her back, too, Diana discovered, when the shirt pulled away, one long deep slice that crossed the blades of Lois's shoulders and a scattering of smaller cuts. Another icicle, no doubt, and she had ducked and been caught by the edge of one long shard of ice as it had shattered—

"Diana," Lois said, and touched her cheek.

Diana realized, dimly, that her grip had tightened upon Lois's bare shoulder. Too much, more than she had intended. It was only that it was so difficult to think of, that Lois had been in pain, in danger, and Diana had not been there.

"I really am all right," Lois murmured.

"You are bleeding all over me," Diana said; but she breathed in slow and the tension seeped from her, and after a moment she was able to brush Lois's chin with her thumb, and kiss her mouth softly, and say, "Go on, in there. Let me clean you up."

Lois looked at her then, and her eyes were bright and steady, unreadable. "All right," she said softly.

Diana had meant to fold up the shirt, but of course it was ruined, slashed through the back and spotted with blood.

She stood there and held it instead. Too long; much too long. And then she made herself set it down, and stripped her armor absently away and left it alongside, and followed Lois.

She had pointed Lois to the bathroom—which was enormous, gilt and tile and porcelain, and its most impressive feature by far was the exceptionally large bath: set into the floor, deep enough to stand within, stone stairs leading down. Diana began to run the water hot, and then thought better of it. Lois was still too cold for her liking, still shivering too much though the room was already warm, and the last thing Diana wished to do was scald her.

Lois was already seated on the raised lip of it, stripped bare, skin pebbled, watching Diana in the absent tired manner of a person in a room in which only one other thing is moving. Diana knelt beside her, reached down and dipped a washcloth into the rising water within the bath, and pressed it to the wound that crossed Lois's back—and Lois's breath caught, then, and suddenly she was there again behind her eyes.

"Too hot?" Diana murmured, abruptly uncertain.

But Lois looked at her and said, "No. No, it's—it's fine. Please."

And oh, it should have been a simple thing. Diana had tended many wounds, once, though of course these days she suffered few herself. In truth, Lois had not been wrong: her injuries were minor, many but small.

But Diana watched her own hands move along the long curving line of Lois's bare back, as she wiped the blood away, and felt within herself a soft foreboding, a presentiment of some indefinable danger. She was familiar with the smattering of freckles that crossed the blades of Lois's shoulders, familiar with the soft pink line Lois's bra always left after she took it off—familiar with the nape of Lois's neck, bared whenever she drew the fall of her hair forward over her shoulder. There was no reason why any of it should shake her so _now_, and yet—

She bit her lip, and moved closer: pressed her own bare knee to Lois's naked hip, curled a steadying hand round the ball of Lois's nearer shoulder.

The blood came away easily, even where it had begun to crust and dry, beneath the washcloth in her hand; and half the smaller cuts had nearly vanished, without the spill of it to give them away. The water had reached Lois's ankles where she had draped her legs into the bath, and she was shuddering all the harder for it as her body began to warm in truth at last.

"All right," Diana said, when she judged at last there was nothing more to be done. The wound was not deep enough to require stitching, and of course there was no point in bandaging it yet. She turned and lowered herself down the edge of the bath—reached out and smoothed her hands round Lois's waist. "Come on."

And she was careful, so careful, not to brush the curve of Lois's breast as she did it. Because that was not why they were here, and the last thing she wanted Lois to think was that she had done all this only to—

"This is not," Lois murmured, "how I wanted to get naked with you in here for the first time."

"Oh?" Diana said.

"Are you kidding me?" Lois said, and then shuddered, full-body, swaying toward Diana in the water. "God, that feels good," she added, and Diana did not let go of her, drew her nearer—the bath had a ledge of clean stone to sit upon, and within a moment they were settled upon it, Lois caught close within the curve of Diana's arm, their legs tangling. "Goddamn tragedy it takes so long to fill this thing."

"Minutes only," Diana observed.

"Yeah," Lois agreed, the corner of her mouth slanting, sly. "Always too hard to convince myself to wait around that long when your bed is right there."

Diana laughed; and Lois beamed up at her as if pleased to have provoked it—and then sighed, eyes sliding half-shut, and let her head tip back against Diana's shoulder.

Her hair was loose. Damp, still, though of course the last of the ice had long since melted from it.

"Here," Diana murmured, soft against the shell of her ear. "Let me," and she drew away a little: only far enough to see what she was doing, to catch the length of it within her grasp and sluice it through the water.

She combed her fingers through it, careful and coaxing, until all the loose wet weight of it was smooth and shining. And then—

Then she could not stop. She smoothed her hands along Lois's shoulders; rinsed the wounds along her arm, too, with hot clean water; skimmed careful fingertips along her chin, her jaw, the side of her throat—the crooks of her elbows—the tender curve of her waist.

All of Lois, here before her, and yet Diana felt suddenly sure it was not enough, it never would be. Because it didn't mean what she wished it to mean, that Lois was here with her and that Diana was allowed to care for her so, to tend her wounds, to hold her. It didn't mean what she wished it to mean, and yet it was so near to it, and somehow that very nearness only sharpened her awareness of the narrow and uncrossable gap that remained.

She could have moved closer, she knew. Lois would have permitted it. She could have held Lois there, slid careful fingers down between her soft thighs—or ducked beneath the water, pressed her mouth to Lois's breasts, the soft trembling skin of her waist, the hot secret crease of her hip. She had done as much many times before, had thought to herself in a haze of sweet satisfaction that there was nothing in life she loved better than Lois beneath her: the way she cursed and flushed and shuddered under Diana's mouth and hands; the way it felt to press three fingers inside her, to work the heel of one hand against her until she shook and clenched her thighs and bit her lip. But—

But the gap would not be diminished by it. And tonight, somehow, even the thought was difficult to bear. It was Lois who had been injured, who had been closed up within a wall of ice. And yet Diana could not set aside a feeling of—of fragility, glittering and ominous: as if the ice were now within her chest, and mazed with cracks, and an incautious touch would break her.

It would be foolish to dwell, she told herself. Lois had relaxed against her utterly, now, eyes closed, soft pale lashes a dim blurred line against her cheek—which had flushed gradually pink. Diana brushed the backs of two fingers gently against the color, as if she had to take care lest she chase it away again; but it did not flee.

Lois had felt it, though. She must have, for when Diana looked up into her eyes again Lois was looking back, blurred and sweet and hazy.

"Diana," she murmured, and stretched a little, cascading drips falling in a flurry of splashes as her hands left the water.

"Yes," Diana said softly—there was never any other word in her heart but that, she thought, for Lois.

She had observed once, idly, when she had first bought this place, that there were so many towels—who could ever need so many towels? But it had been a convenience, that the linens had been stocked already, and she had shrugged her shoulders and been amused by the ways of humans, and had thought no more about it.

Now, though, she was glad. They were huge and white and soft, and there were easily half a dozen of them; she could wrap one round Lois's shoulders and use another to tousle her hair until it was done dripping, and pile another across her lap, and still there were more to spare.

Which was for the best, for Diana's hair was wet too. She hadn't paid it any mind, that was all—didn't, until she pushed herself up out of the bath and felt the damp locks slide along her back.

In the end, she laid the bed with towels, too. Warmer than the soft clean sheets, she told herself, and easier: so they didn't have to stand in the damp cooling air, once Lois's back had been bandaged up with tape and gauze; so she could shepherd Lois there without pause.

And in addition to all the other things this evening was not, it was not the first time Diana had had Lois in her bed. But nevertheless her heart felt bound tight, aching, in her chest, to see Lois there now—and then Lois twisted round and looked up at her, reached out her hand and said, "Oh, don't think you're going to get away with not tucking me in."

Diana smiled at her, helpless to prevent it, and let Lois draw her down and kiss her. Half a towel was trapped between them at first, and Diana was grateful for it; as if it were not already hard enough to keep her hands out from between Lois's thighs, as if she needed any further temptation.

Except, of course, it would also have served as a distraction. As it was, they were—Lois kissed her, kissed her and kissed her and kissed her. Bit softly at the curve of Diana's lip: not shy, not gentle, but savoring it, slow and sweet and aching. Licked along the line of it, until Diana couldn't help but twist her fingers where they'd slid into Lois's hair, couldn't help but hold her there and catch that clever tongue between her teeth, lick Lois's mouth open beneath her in her turn, and—and drink of it, deep.

It was too much. It was not enough. She couldn't breathe; she pressed her thighs together and dug her nails into her palms through the cloud of Lois's hair, pulled away all at once and squeezed her eyes shut and _made_ herself let go, twisting her hot face down against a pillow.

"Diana," Lois said softly, sounding puzzled, and reached for her again—

Diana caught her hand before it could come nearer; but that was not better, no less temptation, and she slid her fingers between Lois's, twined them together and bit the inside of her cheek and knew herself for a fool.

"You should rest," she tried.

Not untruth; but Lois looked at her across the dim quiet space between them as though it had been, brow furrowing, gaze darting back and forth across Diana's face.

"Pull the other one," she said after a long moment, and rubbed her thumb along the ball of Diana's, the heel of Diana's hand.

And Diana let her eyes fall shut again, and felt her mouth twist: a soft rueful smile, resigned acknowledgment.

For even were she inclined to deceive as a rule, it would not matter now. Lois could not help but pry the deepest truths free, where she could perceive that they were hidden from her. It was her nature.

"Diana, look," Lois said quietly. "I know we've been—sleeping together for a while. We're friends. You care about me. But I promise you, you aren't obligated to—"

"Obligated," Diana repeated, and turned her face into the pillow again for a moment; because it would have been wrong to laugh, and yet for a wild instant she wanted dearly to do it anyway.

She shook her head, levered herself up upon one elbow and turned their joined hands, and pressed her mouth gently to the back of Lois's.

"The boundary that governs me," she said after a moment, against the bend of Lois's knuckles, "isn't what I do or do not feel obligated to undertake, but rather what you will permit me."

She meant it only as explanation, not confession; but she risked a glance and Lois was staring at her, eyes wide, mouth slack.

"_Permit_ you," she echoed, breathless and astounded, and Diana's heart began, unbidden, to pound. "Are you fucking kidding me? _Diana_—"

She gripped Diana's hand with purpose, now, and then she was—she had taken Diana's face in the other hand, and kissed her again, deep and messy and startling.

"Lois," Diana said into her mouth, bewildered.

And Lois laughed against her, broke what was left of the kiss and shook her head, and leaned in again across the pillow to press her brow to Diana's. "God, I thought—I figured I'd blown it," she said unsteadily, and then her voice dropped lower still, nearly a whisper. "I just wanted to be close to someone, at first. I just wanted to not have to be alone anymore."

"I know," Diana said, and reached out, smoothed her fingers soothingly along the line of Lois's wrist.

But Lois only caught that hand, too, and held it tight. "No, you don't," she said. "Not the rest of it. I just—I didn't know what to do, that's all. We were _friends_. We already saw each other all the time, we already had dinner together. We went out for lunch, we've—we've gotten coffee together like a hundred times. You _forged me an armband_ for my birthday, and I gave you—jesus, I gave you shoes, of all the ridiculous things to—"

"I like those shoes," Diana said cautiously.

But Lois only shook her head a little, the ends of their noses brushing. "And you were already sleeping with me. Because you felt sorry for me, and you're generous. You're always so—"

"Lois," Diana said, and tilted her head, brushed a kiss to the corner of Lois's mouth. "Lois. Not that generous."

"I didn't know what else to do," Lois repeated, breathless. "I didn't know how to get you to change your mind about me. About us, about what we were."

"You didn't have to," Diana told her. "I—didn't wish to burden you." She bit her lip, and kissed Lois's cheek; and then the corner of her eye, against the soft sweeping brush of her eyelashes. "I knew that it would pain you to have hurt me. I didn't want that."

The words felt small in comparison to how the shadow of it had loomed, the inexorable certainty.

And she hadn't even managed to say Clark's name, but it seemed she didn't need to: Lois's face cleared, suddenly awash with the dawn of comprehension, and she ducked her head, sighed unsteadily against the line of Diana's throat—and then kissed it, absent and sweet, as though she could not help it.

"Oh, god, I'm sorry," she murmured. "I'm sorry, I should have said something. Even if I couldn't figure out how to tell you the rest, I should have—"

"Never mind," Diana said softly. "Never mind, it doesn't matter now," and she tugged her hands free of Lois's to catch her face in them—to kiss her, once and then again, except she was smiling far too widely and helplessly to linger the way she wished to.

"Just so we're clear," Lois said against her mouth, unevenly, "here's your permission. All right? You're permitted. You—anything, Diana. _Anything_," and Diana laughed and drew her nearer still: anything, she thought, at the exact moment when everything she had longed for most was here, and hers; when all the deepest yearning of her heart was satisfied, and there was nothing left in all the world to ask for.


End file.
